


After the Funeral

by Lefaym



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-13
Updated: 2008-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/pseuds/Lefaym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Exit Wounds: After the funeral, Jack let Ianto take him back to his flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Funeral

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to used_songs and jo02 from LJ for the betas.

After the funeral, Jack let Ianto take him back to his flat.

They'd barely touched each other in the week since—since Tosh had died in his arms, since Owen had been dissolved beyond death, since the long stretch of barely remembered blackness—since Gray. Jack had tried reaching out—a hand on Ianto's shoulder, against his back—only to find himself frozen, as though he couldn't recall what to do next, as though he was afraid that his memories of flesh, heat, and close intimate oblivion were just a dream he'd conjured to help face the damp, crushing darkness—a dream to chase the ghosts away. And Ianto—Ianto had seemed almost scared to touch him, until this afternoon, when Gwen had whispered something in his ear as she hugged him goodbye.

Both of them had looked over at Jack then, and Ianto had nodded; moments later Jack felt Ianto's hand on his arm, guiding him, leading him to the SUV. He followed without thinking, letting Ianto drive him away, take him inside, until they stood in Ianto's small bedroom, facing each other.

Ianto seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he leaned forward and kissed Jack softly, slowly—carefully, as though he was made of glass. He cupped Jack's jaw with one hand, and when he pulled his lips away, the hand slipped down Jack's neck, and pushed one brace from his shoulder.

"Please," said Jack.

"Okay."

"I need—"

"I know."

But Ianto didn't know, he couldn't know, so Jack grabbed him by the waist, and tried to pull him even closer, tried to crush their lips together so hard that it hurt, so hard that they couldn't breathe—but somehow Ianto managed to slip a hand between them, holding Jack back, and Jack found himself unable to move again, unable to do anything but close his eyes as Ianto raised his hands to Jack's collar.

It was almost torture, the way that Ianto slowly undressed him, meticulously undoing each button, each zip, each clasp. He bent down to remove their shoes and socks, then stood to unfasten both their belts; he pushed Jack's other brace from his shoulder, and kissed him again, before removing both his shirts, and easing him out of his trousers. And somehow, in the midst of this, he managed to remove his own clothes too, so that they stood in front of each other, close, naked, trembling.

Jack felt Ianto's hands curl around his back, enclosing him, pressing them close together. He felt Ianto's breath on his neck, felt his heartbeat, felt him shudder, as though he could almost sense the shades that lurked in the corners of Jack's memory.

"Fuck me," Jack whispered.

"Soon," said Ianto, his lips at Jack's earlobe. "Soon."

And because he couldn't do anything else, Jack went almost meekly as Ianto manoeuvred him into a kneeling position at the top of the bed, facing the wall. He parted his legs as Ianto climbed onto the mattress behind him, and knelt between Jack's calves. Jack reached behind himself, trying to pull Ianto forward, trying to pull Ianto inside him, but Ianto brushed Jack's hands away. And instead of fucking him, instead of making him burn inside, hot enough to sear away the images that always pressed at the corners of Jack's vision, instead of giving him that relief, Ianto's hands found their way onto Jack's shoulders, slowly working at the muscles there.

Jack relaxed in spite of himself as Ianto's hands thrummed their way down his back, tracing familiar patterns, applying pressure in exactly the right places, melting him, breaking his guard. He couldn't resist, he couldn't hide, even if he needed to. He couldn't hold himself aloof, he couldn't stop, he couldn't protect himself from _them_, he couldn't stop them from surrounding him. _Fuck_.

"God, Ianto, just get on with it," said Jack hoarsely, under his breath.

Ianto leaned forward, and his teeth sunk into the skin of Jack's shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to hurt a little: one short, sharp, brilliant burst of pain—one moment of relief. "No. Not yet."

"Please, Ianto."

"You're not ready."

"I don't need to be ready."

"Then I'm not ready."

Jack could feel Ianto's erection pressing against his buttocks, but he suspected that Ianto wasn't talking about arousal. Ianto's hands continued their way down his back, kneading his flesh, forcing it to unwind. When they reached the base of his spine, Ianto drew back a little, and Jack felt him reach across to the bedside table, and heard him opening the bottle of lube that he kept there. And then, finally, _finally_, Ianto was easing a finger inside him, while his other hand lay on Jack's hip.

Jack pushed back against him, trying to make him go faster, trying to tell him not to be so damn gentle, so damn _considerate_. But somehow, no matter how hard Jack pushed, Ianto kept his pace slow and almost-steady, with just enough variation in the tempo, just the right balance between regularity and surprise. And it felt good, _oh fuck_, it felt good, but Jack didn't want good, he wanted mindless, hard, and rough. He wanted to flinch and grit his teeth, he wanted to bite down on his lower lip so that he wouldn't scream, but Ianto was having none of it. A second finger joined the first, opening him up, slowly, softly, laying him bare, denying him the pain that might let him forget their faces for one fucking moment.

Jack gasped in dismay when Ianto removed his fingers, but then he heard the dull rip of a condom packet, and he felt Ianto adjust himself behind him. Jack leaned forward, bracing himself against the bed-frame with one hand, spreading his legs further apart as he felt Ianto push forward. Jack tried to hold himself tense as Ianto entered him, but Ianto had been too thorough; Jack's body was clay; it moulded itself willingly around his lover, his tormentor.

Even to his own ears, the sound that emerged from Jack's mouth sounded suspiciously like a sob. _Fuck, no, not again; haven't I cried enough?_ And then Ianto's teeth were at his shoulder again, applying just enough pressure, just enough to allow Jack to breathe in sharply as he regained control. But a moment later, the teeth were gone, replaced with lips and tongue and hot breath that tickled his neck, caressing him, calling them back.

With every soft finger strumming his skin, with every kiss that Ianto planted along his jaw and across his neck, Jack saw them—Toshiko forgiving him as she died, and Gray who lived because forgiveness was impossible. Owen, his flesh melting away as he tried to scream, and Suzie, laughing at him as he filled her with bullets. Estelle, her glassy eyes still full of fear, and Alex trembling as he raised the gun to his own head. Ianto summoned them all with his hands, with his mouth, with his body, and Jack was powerless to stop him.

Jack's body betrayed him, arching forward and then pressing backwards as Ianto began to move inside him with greater speed. Those eyes, those forgiving, accusing, laughing, empty eyes, couldn't stop the warmth that radiated through every muscle, they couldn't stop the glorious pressure of Ianto's right hand on his cock, or the sweat that trickled down his back. And, at the last, they couldn't stop him from coming, hard, when Ianto's teeth met his shoulder for a third and final time.

Jack managed—just—to hold himself upright until he felt Ianto shudder against him with a low moan, and then he slumped forward, holding onto the bed-frame with both hands, as though it was all that stopped him from falling into oblivion. Ianto waited a moment, his hands trailing down Jack's spine, before pulling back, leaving Jack both empty and relieved.

As he saw Ianto reach for tissues out of the corner of his eyes, Jack mustered the energy to swing around to the other side of the bed, easing down onto his back, staring up at the blank, white ceiling. Jack heard Ianto cleaning himself up, and then Ianto was kneeling beside him, wiping up the sticky mess on Jack's stomach, his thighs, around his groin. Only when Ianto retrieved a clean tissue and lifted it to Jack's face did Jack realise that his cheeks were wet.

"I'm sorry," Ianto whispered, his voice shaking slightly. "I didn't want to—"

"Don't worry," said Jack roughly, cutting him off. "It isn't your fault."

Ianto's expression twisted strangely then, and Jack suddenly felt that if anything could kill him, it would be the concern in Ianto's eyes. Because he knew that, one day, Ianto's face would join the others that haunted him, and that look would be there, chasing him through eternity.

"I'm sorry," said Ianto again, looking down at him.

"It's okay," Jack lied.

He placed a hand over Ianto's and squeezed it tightly, then scrunched his eyes closed, trying to hide from the images that formed in the darkness.

"It's okay."


End file.
